Sunday Scribbles XVI

I think I've actually started to crystallise what I was trying to say ther other day. It's really not the beoming As One with Australia that worries me. It's the way of doing it. The entire structure is founded on growth. My problem is this: hasn't the world foundered on growth? This insane desire for more tat, more bling, more plasma... it ain't healthy. I'm not an advocate of getting rid of technology. But I am concerned that corporations - international businesses that are predicated on growth - have more influence on what happens to the planet than do individual nations. And when their need for growth overcooks them, they come to the state witgh their hands out, crying out to be fed. And we've done so... because to not feed the maw of growth and consumerism is to see us fall back to the levels of the (say) 1970s. Or the Third World. Actually, the way we lived in the 1970s is how the Third World lives now, in many, many ways. Oddly, I didn't mind it then, and I wouldn't mind it now.

And don't think that this means I'm feeling my age and am indulging in dribbling nostalgia. I'm not. The '70s introduced disco to the world, for goodness' sake. But the Western world enjoyed good health care, good education, good transport.... and contained within it the seeeds of our current plight. The world's going to hell in a handbasket, and we're sending our politicians to Copenhagen to find a solution. Pewrhaps we need to look at the philosophy of growth. If we spent our defence money on educating, feeding, and caring for the world... we'd be a lot better off.

I've never said I wasn't naive.

Or stoopid.

Beautiful day here in Auckland today: I'm looking forward to breakfasting, and going for a long walk. And while I'm walking, I shall make sure that I won't be going into any shop that's larger than adairy. I so object to Sunday shopping. It contributes nothing to society, and takes parents away from their children.


READING: Still with John Birmingham. He's just killed offf another half-billion people. he sure doesn't think small. I've just picked up a copy of "Stalingrad" - am eagerly anticipating getting into that.

LISTENING TO: "Back Against The Wall", various artists. It's Pink Floyd's "The Wall" as done by others. Entertaining.

LAST MOVIE SEEN: On DVD, last night - "I'm Not There", the Bob Dylan Biopic, with a half dozen people - including Cate Blanchett, Richard Gere, and Christian Bale - all playing Mr Zimmerman. It is tremendously good. I will have to watch it again: it's complex, introguing, poetical, allegorical, epic, and brutally honest.

WORD OF THE DAY: Allegorical.


More Rats.


Weatherby hated Arthur Tomlinson. An unreasoning cold rage gripped him whenever he thought of the stocky blacksmith. Tomlinson’s effortless popularity stood in stark contrast to Weatherby’s own hard won – and hard bought - support, and Weatherby suspected that Arthur had the prize he had sought for himself.
Weatherby had been two years ahead of Arthur at the local school, and had been humiliated by the younger boy at almost every turn. Tomlinson’s natural skill and proficiency with a rifle had earned him the shooting medals three years in a row, and he had a natural athleticism denied the older boy. Arthur had made the first XV the same year as Weatherby, and had been a fearsome first-five eighth. In summer, he had played cricket on the village green, dressed in patched flannels, and out-bowled, out-fielded, and out-batted the impeccably turned out Weatherby. At every turn of the young Weatherby’s life, he’d been bested by this upstart. But this time he knew he had him exactly where he wanted him. Arthur, in his turn, had felt the edge of Weatherby’s tongue needling and taunting his all through his school years. He had fallen to his knees in thanks for the respite handed him when Weatherby left for Britain, and had hoped that the man’s return would bring with it an easing of the one-sided feud. It was not to be. Weatherby returned with, it seemed, an even greater dislike for the one man he saw as a rival, and he took every opportunity to belittle and provoke Arthur into an indiscretion. Weatherby hatred for Arthur Tomlinson was boundless, reasonless, and on this occasion he made it work for him.
“You dog, Weatherby!” Arthur stormed. “How can you talk of the glory of war, when it is nothing but a callous slaughter of innocents? If you are so brave, so courageous, why is it we don’t see you dressed in the King’s uniform, eh?”
Old Man Smith was a popular figure in Northridge. There wasn’t a man or woman who didn’t know him, and who hadn’t looked with approval on the job he’d done with the orphaned Arthur. Arthur was as well-liked: he had a kind word for pretty well everyone, and was patient with children – and very good with the horses. If Arthur had but known it, he had been setting the hearts of young women a-flutter for a good ten years now. Arthur’s inborn modesty, however, was a hindrance to him. He honestly believed that he would make no woman a good husband. Besides which, he was in love, and it was a love that was hopeless – so, he daily repaid Grampa Smith for all the kindness the old man had given him over the years, and every day Arthur saw the object of his heart’s yearning, he would gaze, and simply sigh.

Blowing Holy Smoke

The Shroud of Turin. Well, finally someone has remade the fraud, to demonstrate it as a fraud. To the catholic church's credit, they haven't claimed it to be Jesus' shroud, but have said it serves as a reminder of his passion and pain. What it actually is, was, and ever shall be is a startling reminder of the church's venality, and its long and sure grasp of the fact that there's one born every minute. Luigi Garlaschelli's the man who recreated the shroud, using method and materials that were known and used back in the days carbon-dating proved the shroud was made: around 100CE. As he says, however, the fact that he's recreated the shroud's picture will in no way help convince those who "believe" that the original's real that it is, in fact, BS. And why should it? There are, after all, many people who remain convinced that the earth is flat, that the moon landings were faked, and that yes, Elizabeth, there is a Kansas.

Negative Growth: In all of newspeak, there are few trite phrases packed with as much Taranaki paddock decoration as this one. We could put "going forward" up there as a contender, but it's a lightweight: mere puffery. Negative Growth delivers the heavyweight KO. Not only is it puffery, it is also a lie. Not only is it a lie, it's a malicious lie, one that's designed to deliver the untruth in such a way as to convince the listener of... well, of the veracity of the lie. No, wait. To convince that the lie is not only the truth, it's a desirable... No, wait. Actually, this is how Orwell's newspeak worked. By confusing and blurring the actual meanings of the two words"truth" and lies" so that one becomes the other, and no-one who has any grasp of reality is listened to any more. Negative Growth is, in fact, shrinkage. Diminshment. Loss. "We experienced negative growth of 230 million dollars last year" means we lost 230 million dollars last year, but we're still going to reward the Board members with a 20 million dollar bonus.

Little Girl Lost: In Waitakere City today there's 150 or so cops and volunteers searching for a two-year old child who's been missing for over 24 hours. Work harder, guys, and work well. It's something that breaks the heart of any person with a pulse. So, naturally, the 6 o'clock news today opened with a story about a corrupt politician getting his just rewards: 6 years in the slammer. I suppose that corrupt pollies actually getting what they deserve is a much rarer occurence than children going missing, but come on. I know what I think is more important: it's someone who'd have to reach up to hold my hand.

Reading: Alan Bennett, "The Uncommon Reader". It's superb. It's Bennett, so of course it's superb. But it's superb, anyway.

Listening To: Jethro Tull, "Roots to Branches". This, too, is superb, although Alan Bennett had nothing to do with it.

Word of the Day: Fraud.

More Mo:

That's Mum. She never can leave well enough alone. Still, it wasn't a bad idea. I said g'day to the Reverend, then turned to Chutty, and looked at him. He'd wisely kept his mouth shut, although he undoubtedly had a million or two questions buzzing around inside his skull.
“It's like this Chutty,” I started. I had to stop for moment then. I was very close to tears. “It's like this. I had an idea this morning when I was thinking about Charles and Diana, and My Surprise. And I thought that, if it's alright with you, I'd like us to restate our wedding vows. I was going to make it a family thing only, but Mum's got it into her head to bring Reverend Knox in.”
Chutty just looked at me, then the biggest smile I've ever seen on his face slowly developed. I'll keep that picture in my mind until the day I die, I swear. I turned to his holiness the reverend, and asked him if he was OK with the idea.
“Well, I say, most unusual, I must say, but yes, I'm sure.” He was a pompous thing, for a man as young as he was: if he'd cracked 30 years at that time I was Mother Teresa's hand-maiden. I looked around the room, and sighed. People I loved, a friend in need, and a stranger. It was almost perfect. Treen was radiant in her Sleeping Beauty costume, the boys were handsome – I straightened Useless's loosely knotted neck-tie – Mum was looking very smug, and Wendy was keeping to the background. Time, I thought, to deliver The Surprise to Chutty.
I looked him straight in the eye, and said “Chutty. I have something to tell you, and I don't know how you're going to react, so I'll just come out and say it.”
He was suddenly nervous, and I saw him wipe the palms of his hands on his backside. I took a deep breath.
“I'm pregnant. About two months, I think.”
He stood stock still. He looked into my face, then at my belly, then back into my eyes. You remember I said I'll carry the picture of that earlier smile with me to my grave? Actually, this smile is the one I meant.
“Pregnant?” he said. “Pregnant? Bloody hell. That's brilliant. Pregnant? Really?”
I said “Yes,” teary-eyed. Suddenly, I just needed to hold him, very tight. Suddenly, he was holding me, and I was sobbing into his collar. I have never been happier than I was at that very moment.
“Well, I say, this is, this is, I must say this is marvelous news,” said the Reverend Knox. There was a general hubbub of noise, and Russel was holding us, and Treen was getting into the action, and I saw Mum holding Wendy's hand, and smiling. Wendy looked scared, and nervous, and for a fleeting moment I wondered why.
“Should we, I say, should we perhaps start now?” The Reverend was trying to impose some order on what was turning into a generally chaotic moment. I nodded, and got Treen to open the bottles of Lindauer bubbles she'd put into the fridge earlier. She poured everyone a glass, and Chutty and I turned to the Minister.
“My goodness,' he said. “I completely forgot to bring my Bible. May I borrow yours?”
Treen turned to the bookshelf “We've got one here somewhere,” she said. “Under B for, Big and Black,or under B for um, bullsh -”
“Treen!” I snapped. “Just get it.”
She flashed me a grin, and passed the book to the priest. As he took it, I reached into the top of my wedding dress, and pulled out a couple of pieces of paper.
“These were our vows that we made 14 years ago. Do you think we should use them again?”
“Too right,”said Chutty.